haiku. poetry.

On Sleep and Wakefulness

He never slept well when in bed with another human being, at some undefined and vulnerable hour of the morning he always woke and stared helplessly into the darkness for a few hours.

[the space between stars a ruminant]

Telling himself I am not scared I am not scared as if he were still a little boy, and scared.

[fall roses I’ve never grown them myself]

Her head rested on his shoulder so he couldn’t move without disturbing her, he couldn’t disturb her without admitting she was there.

[a branch breaks I confess to it]

So he was a captive audience when the giant eye floated by the window, like a cloud scudding across the moon, or the moon breaking free of a cloud, and he realized that the sound he had taken for a distant freight train was the footsteps of someone impossibly large.